


Fireside Chat

by Lionsmane



Series: Love between Warriors [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:50:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lionsmane/pseuds/Lionsmane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is to be done with a King who mistreats his people?</p><p>The White Counsel debates this as war comes.  Legolas and Tauriel go to their Realm's encampment to confront their King, and a new character emerges who may have an agenda of her own.</p><p>This is Part 3 of the Love Between Warriors series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whispers in the Dark

Dinariel walks through the quiet tents of the Woodland camp, remembering.

The first time he had asked it of her, she had found honor in it. To bear a child of Sindar lineage would be an honor, but much more besides. In her Realm, what lies at the center of most of the elves she knows is a warrior spirit. She has trained with her people. She has learned to be skilled with sword and bow, and she has fought in campaigns against orcs, goblins, and the recent invasion of spiders in their own forest. But she has never felt the drive to fight. The others spend much time in practice, sparring, challenging each other. She sees the spark in their eyes, in the eyes of those Sylvan elves especially, in Tauriel whom she has come to admire. The elves march through the centuries of their lives with a constant desire to stay sharp, to become stronger, to become invincible…

Dinariel feels a different desire.

She feels it each time a woman in her kingdom bears a child. It does not matter to her what the lineage is. An elf birth is a rare thing. More often it has occurred in the Sylvan line, and so it is to these women that she is drawn. Their newborns fill her arms like warm hope. She is fascinated by their tiny fingers that wrap around hers, by the way they nuzzle at her, by the impossible smallness and fragility of them. She can never seem to get enough of them, and becomes close friends with the mothers, sitting with them as they feed their babes, asking many questions. She takes pleasure in the children as they grow, coming to see them change, gain new abilities, cut new teeth, learn new games.

The Sindar male who comes to her is kind. She had already had her eye on him. His eyes are light brown and twinkle at her as he speaks.

His name is Voronil and he keeps tradition. He spends much time talking with her, and brings her gifts. They share their star memories at night in the upper chambers of the Realm before he finally breaches the space between them. It was so strange, at first, intimate touching… they are both more than 800 years old, and neither has really been intimate with another beyond the early training they had received as younglings. They knew what to do, and how, and why, but they had never connected it to the joy they felt from being together. They became friends, confidants, and finally lovers…they had laughed at how afraid they had been and how easy it finally was.

And then she had felt the flutterings of life inside her. The first time it had nearly brought her to weeping. Even as her belly grew she was stunned with wonder every time she sensed the new spirit growing there, passing her hands over it, feeling it twist and turn inside her, imagining its little body stretching. Voronil takes as much pleasure in it as she does. He often presses his ear and hands against her swollen belly, his beautiful eyes widening as the infant passes its limbs against him so he can feel its life as clearly as she can.

The baby girl is round and precious as a pearl. _Pokariel_ , they decide. King Thranduil is the second one to hold her after Voronil. The best wines are ordered, and there is a feast. Dinariel and Voronil are held in high honor amongst the Sindar for bringing the first elf child of their lineage into the world in many years.

And then Voronil’s patrol is attacked by spiders, and Voronil does not return.

There is a dark time after that.

She remembers comforting hands on her almost constantly, soothing words that don’t seem to give any relief to the aching abyss in her chest. She fears that she may fall into it and then just keep falling. Pokariel is given to a nursemaid. She would like to visit her Sylvan female friends again, but cannot bring herself to move, and none of them seem to visit her. In fact Dinariel sees fewer and fewer of her kinspeople, until only King Thranduil and a Sindar elf male named Nurtalas. Nurtalas does not speak very much, but he brings her nourishing food, and does not require anything of her.

As she begins to recover, King Thranduil comes to her again, requesting.

_You are the only woman who has succeeded…for the good of the Realm…_

Nurtalas follows no traditions, but he is gentle.

They name the baby boy _Lirimiras_. He is as precious as his half-sister, and as beautiful. Dinariel begins to step backwards, finally, from the cliff’s edge she has walked…

Nurtalas was never the loving attentive partner Voronil had been, but as soon as his son is born he no longer spends time with Dinariel at all. Dinariel is not greatly hurt. She had not formed a very close attachment, and has enough happiness interacting with her two small ones on her own.

But she begins to hear whispers. She is an unpledged woman with two children. Her Sindar kinsmen seem to look at her with something like derision, or is she imagining it? _Brood mare, only good for one thing_ … these words stay at the edges of her mind and do not trouble her greatly, but there seem to be shadowy moments, strange blank spaces during this time that she cannot remember properly…

  
She tries to visit her Sylvan women friends, but is stopped each time by a charming Sindar male named Lokamaril. _You don’t want to go down there, not you, you are superior to them, mother of our Sindar children, mother to all of us…_

He flatters her, and his hands are caressing and insistent. He brings her into the common rooms where the Sindar eat and socialize. She is reluctant. These are places she has been avoiding. But he seems to act as a bridge between her and her kinsmen. He brings her into the sparring rooms as well and encourages her to practice with the sword and bow. She is fairly certain that her strength and skills surprise him. His face darkens slightly when she is able to best him, but he recovers quickly and reverts to praising her effusively.

More whispers… _Lokamaril will have his turn…who gets to be next?..._

And Thranduil comes to her again. _Another child would be such a great gift…not just for the Realm but for you, and for Pokariel and Lirimiras…_

She does not consent at first. She asks questions, asks why she cannot select a different mate, someone other than Lokamaril, for she does not feel favorably towards him…why would Nurtalas not come to her again?

_The line will be stronger if each father is different. It would please me if you would consent to my wishes Dinariel…_

Lokamaril comes to her that night with eyes glittering and makes love to her as though he were running a great race for a golden trophy. His mouth crashes into hers, and she sees it curling upwards on one side as pushes her down into the furs of her bed. He grips her hard and possessively, though his words are soft and flattering as always… _So beautiful, Dinariel, …you are the realization of all that is good of the Sindar… you shine like starlight, your star memories will be sung for many generations…_

The baby is a girl with eyes the color of river water in sunlight. They name her _Arotamuin_. Again her heart is lightened by the feel of her baby in her arms, but it begins to become the only source of feeling for her.

As her children grow she takes great joy in them, but worries for them. Isolated in the palace, they are not allowed to interact with the many Sylvan children in the lower status regions of the Realm. Dinariel is discouraged from going there as well, although she defies this from time to time, and maintains her friendships with her female fellow mothers there.

Lokamaril comes to her rooms again, but she firmly rebuffs him, and he does not return.

She finds that she thinks of Voronil often, and misses him.

Whispers again…this time whispers that choke her, bring the cliff’s edge back,

_What really happened to Voronil?...Since when has a spider ever overpowered one as strong as he was?..._

_He was in the way…Thranduil was just clearing the path for the next stud…_

Again there are periods of time during her children’s adolescence that she cannot properly remember, and these terrible thoughts and their terrible direction seem to hang on the edges of her mind. She has not felt fully herself, fully awake, in years.

But tonight something in her has begun to awaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plight of this woman seemed to deserve more description. Legolas and Tauriel will have their moments in the following chapters, but Denariel needed this moment. 
> 
> This is the most experimental I've ever gotten, and I would welcome your comments!


	2. Truth by Firelight

The elves emerge from their tents and rise from their campfires to stare at them as they walk by, Sylvan and Sindar alike.

_There is_ _our Prince! He has returned. But is not that Tauriel with him?_

_I thought she had been banished…_

_No, she was exiled and taken by spiders…_

_I thought she had taken her own life for shame of mating with a dwarf…_

She turns to look at them. She holds her head high and looks directly into their eyes as she always has before dwarves ever came into their Realm. Their whispers stop.

Tauriel looks at a group of Sylvan women. She knows some of them. Two of them are mothers. All are low in status. She remembers she used to wonder about that, that any elf who managed to bring a child into the world would be held so low…she does not wonder anymore.

They had not been whispering. They regard her as silently as she regards them.

“I would speak with you, if you would walk with me.” She tells them. More loudly to all who are staring at them, “I would speak to all of you who have questions of me. There are things you need to know. Things you deserve to know.” She turns from them, and she and Legolas walk through the camp, headed for the edge of the tents.

“Do you really think they will listen?” Legolas’ voice is low.

“Yes.” She says, understanding more in the looks of the faces she has just seen than Legolas has.

“Then I will go to m--  to Thranduil’s tent now, so you will have time to talk with them. Will you be all right?”

She rolls her eyes at him. He smiles, nods.

“I worry more for you.” She says.

Legolas looks grimly ahead. “I have made my own bed, and now I must climb out of it.”

*******************************

Tauriel begins to gather kindling and firewood at the edge of the encampment. Those who have followed her begin to help. She works with them, as one of them, to build this source of light and warmth in the darkness. The work is somehow therapeutic and achieves an atmosphere of tentative trust between all of them.

There are maybe 50 of them at first. Mostly Sylvan, mostly female. But as the fire begins to spark and crackle more gather and seat themselves in a semi-circle around her. She sees some Sylvan males have joined them, many of whom were loyal members of her guard, and some sit down with the women she knows to be mothers. One mother, a striking brunette with bright green eyes, sits regally next to an equally beautiful red haired female. The red headed woman’s arm encircles the brunette’s lovingly, and her eyes look to Tauriel with something like beseechment.

There are Sindar elves gathering as well, but far fewer. She recognizes the tall willowy form of Dinariel, and a few other men and women who seem uncertain about the wisdom of their presence there. Uncertain enough that some have come wearing their armor and headgear, and hang back in the shadows.

Her voice rings out to all of them.

“What have you been told about me?”

There is a brief silence, and then they call out the various rumors they had heard. None surprise her. She nods quietly, considering their words, until the little brunette finally speaks.

“Captain Tauriel, is it true that you have given your heart to a dwarf?”

Tauriel is fascinated that the woman speaks not of “mating”, but of the heart. She searches her memory,

“You are …Vanimuin, is that your name?”

Vanimuin bows her head, “You honor me.” The red head beside her looks intensely at Tauriel, her eyes bright. She remembers this woman too. She is a fierce fighter, and has rivaled Tauriel on the archery range.

“And you are Fariendel.” Tauriel smiles at them both, “Your aim is true. I am glad you are both here. And I am honored you call me Captain. I doubt very much that is still my title.” She looks out at the rest of them. “Another Captain has surely been named by now. Who is it?”

One of the Sylvan men stands up. “Lokamaril has been named to take your place, and many of us are not pleased about it.” There is a loud murmur of agreement. Tauriel is astounded by the choice of the swaggeringly incompetent Sindar male to lead the forces of the Realm in this desperate hour.

“Lokamaril. And has he learned yet how to wield a sword on a horse without wounding the very animal he is riding?”

Her guardsmen laugh heartily at this, and there is more mirthful talk of Lokamaril’s many shortcomings. The tension has gone down another notch. She waits for them to quiet, and then looks again at the little brunette.

“In answer to your question, Vanimuin, I have indeed given my heart to a dwarf.”

Many eyes open wide at this statement, and quiet murmuring resumes. Vanimuin speaks again. “But how can it be that an elf as fine as you are could be drawn to a dwarf? They are so…different from us! So short and fat and…”

Other voices begin to chime in,   
“Their features are coarse…”  
“Those bulbous noses, and beards so thick you can’t see their faces…”  
“and greedy! Narrow minded and stubborn like mules…”  
“only interested in treasure…”  
“and hunchbacked,…”  
“and atrocious table manners…”

Tauriel smiles sadly as she hears them describe attributes they cannot possibly have seen, but have only been trained to think. She waits again for them to quiet.

“I can only tell you that there can be as much grace and beauty amongst dwarves as there can be corruption and ugliness amongst elves.”

The group sits in silence for a long moment, their thoughts internal to each of them. They are not murmuring now. Finally it is Dinariel who steps forward, her tall, elegant form and fine features all the more beautiful because she is unconscious of them. The elves turn to look at her with great curiosity, for few of them have ever heard her speak publically. Her eyes reach out generously towards Tauriel and her voice rings with respect.

“Tell us about your dwarf, Tauriel.”

All turn back to Tauriel. She has their full attention.

“His name is Kili, Sister Son of Thorin Oakenshield. He is one of the heirs to the throne of Erebor. But that is not what drew me to him.”

She closes her eyes, seeing Thorin’s company floating down the river in the wine barrels, remembering how her people had closed the gates. Not many of these elves had been there to see how the orcs had gathered as the barrels had crunched together under the stone bridge, placing the dwarves in that desperate position. She tells them the tale, of how it had been Kili who had leapt out of the relative safety of his barrel without armor or weapons of any kind to reach the lever that would raise the gate and free his kin. She tells them of the others who had given Kili cover from the water, but that ultimately Kili’s act had made him the target for the Morgul tipped arrow shot by the orcs, and of the poison that had nearly claimed his life. She tells them that in fact, time after time, every dwarf she has encountered had shown that same willingness to give up their lives for the sake of their brothers. 

She tells them more, of Oin’s great gentle hands and calm voice as he had tended to the wounded following the Dragon’s attack, of Bofur’s merry eyes and friendly words, and of Fili’s keen observant mind, and his fierce loyalty to Kili. She tells them of the free lives they have lived traveling the Greenway before starting on this quest, and that many of them see it as reclamation of home rather than treasure. She tells them of their easy laughter and camaraderie, and how they had welcomed her into their company.

The dwarves are bound to each other in a way the Elves of the Woodland Realm have never experienced for all their longevity. They draw closer to Tauriel, listening like younglings, questioning, doubting some things, but listening.

Dinariel has seated herself amongst her Sylvan friends and is listening as raptly as her kinspeople.

“But you left them, and returned here. Why did you return? And what happened that made you leave again?”

Tauriel knew this moment would come, and knows she must speak carefully, not to protect herself but to protect so many others…

“Legolas bade me return to my duties to you and to my King.” It is not a lie. She carries on, “You all know that King Thranduil confined me to my chambers for some days in punishment for disobeying his orders to remain in the Realm.” They all nod, murmuring affirmatives. “But it seems you do not know what occurred after that…what caused Prince Legolas and I to leave once again. It is time you were told.”

She looks at them. She almost cannot bring herself to speak the words that must come next for she well knows the pain it may cause. Their eyes of here people are wide, and there is fear in some of them. Dinariel’s brow is furrowed. Vanamuin’s green eyes are very large, and Fariendel has pushed her head into Vanamuin’s hair and is speaking softly into her ear… 

“On the night I left, a visitor came to my chambers. The hour was very late. I was not expecting his company.”

The very air around the elves seems to become still and charged. The flames of the campfire flare briefly, crackling loudly.

“He offered me a return to my status as Captain, but at high cost.”

Five women’s heads bow down sharply and there are muffled cries of pain.

“I would not consent to pay his price, so he forced me to.”

One of the women near Dinariel lets out a ragged scream as the man next to her wraps his arms around her. Several other women appear to be doing the same, burying their faces in the arms of those who love them, covering their ears. Those who hold them have clearly been through this before, and look to Tauriel with agonized faces. 

Dinariel’s head spins and her vision blurs, but she gets slowly to her feet and speaks, forcing the words as though through a fog,

“Who did this, Captain Tauriel? Who forced you?”

Tauriel feels tears falling from her own eyes. She forces out the answer. “Thranduil.”

The campfire roars into a small exploding inferno as the emotions of the elves roil through the air of the group, as the unpledged male members of Tauriel’s guard shout their outrage and disbelief, and as those holding fast to those few suffering from memory spells scream for them all to stop, please stop, it must stop now…

Tauriel’s voice rises above all of theirs, “ALL OF YOU BE STILL THIS MOMENT!!!”

She waits once again for them to settle into a silence now edged with the soft weeping of several women.

“I have spoken the truth to you. But you must understand that I am not the only one who was violated, and those who were are right now suffering from a spell laid upon them that causes them pain every time they attempt to remember their violation.”

The air seems to go still again, and a chill fills the air.

“Legolas and I left here and sought help from the high elves now in the Town of Dale above us. I was healed of this cursed spell by Lord Elrond of Rivendell. That is part of the reason I came here tonight, to offer you my guidance in traveling there so you may finally be relieved.”

“Travel will not be necessary.”

All turn towards this new voice, and see one of the tall Sindar elves walking through the group towards Tauriel. Her armor glints beneath a flowing hooded robe, engraved across the breastplate with a pattern of golden star shaped flowers and deep green leaves. A bow and quiver of arrows is strapped to her shoulder and a formidable sword rides her left hip as she moves forward, strangely ethereal in spite of her warrior regalia. As they all watch she removes the helmet that has been hiding her face from them until now.

It is Galadriel.

They know who she is, and many rise to their feet as she steps into the circle that Tauriel occupies. But she seeks only the women who need her. She removes her weapons and lays them aside, reaching for each of the mothers in turn to touch their heads, their faces, silently communing with them and reaching out to those closest to them. She kneels down before Vanamuin who now lies cradled in Fariendel’s arms. 

Galadriel takes the woman’s hands gently into her own, speaking to her but loudly enough for all to hear, “What you must know first, before anything else, is that you are not weak.” She looks at Tauriel, now, her blue eyes piercing into Tauriel’s. “You are much stronger than you know, particularly if you hold true to each other.”

The elves have gathered around Galadriel and the young Sylvan couple. They watch in wonder as Galadriel lays her hands on Vanamuin’s bowed head, and begins to offer freedom to the long captive minds of the Elves of the Woodland Realm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I don't think "beseechment" is a word, but I'm going to go ahead and claim poetic license.
> 
> Neither do I have ANY idea whether or not Tolkien's elves can even do these spells...
> 
> Hope you are enjoying it anyway! The stage is set now.


	3. The Prince and King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intense conversation between father and son

He behaves at first as though he knows nothing. He greets his people, smiles, nods to them casually. It allows him time and opportunity to notice much that he had never noticed before. The Sindar males he passes are the same proud men he has known well, sparred with, gotten drunk with, fought with…but he cannot believe he never noticed how contemptuous they are for…everything. For their Sylvan kin, for their own Sindar females…and even for himself. He can sense them sneering and brazenly whispering about him as he approaches Thranduil’s tent. 

But nothing shocks him anymore. 

The night is cold. A sharp wind whips at the flames of campfires, and the fabric of tents. His legs feel leaden as he steps up to the entrance, breathes deeply, and walks in.

There is nothing casual about Thranduil’s reception of him. The King stands in the center of his tent, flanked by his Royal Guard, and his new first Lieutenant Lokamaril. The elves are standing still as only immortals can, their shoulders squared and their heads tipped slightly forward, their eyes looking out from under their brows as though waiting to receive an enemy. The guardsmen’s faces are largely hidden by their helmets, but evidence of their state of mind shows in their hands which rest tensely on the hilts of their swords. Lokamaril’s mouth is turned up in a half sneer, his tongue flicking out briefly to wet his lips. Thranduil appears formidable and perfect as ever, but Legolas can see a tremor across his upper cheekbone, and a clenching in his jaw muscles.

“Our wayward Prince has returned.” Thranduil’s voice is soft but cuts through the silence like a pin shattering the fracture point of a crystal. “We have been expecting you, my son.”

Again, Legolas is not surprised that his father felt him coming, and that he must know everything of his actions and interviews since he left the Realm. He may even know what Legolas has come to say to him. But he doubts that he knows, or indeed ever knew, of the depth of despair that has slowly grown in his son’s heart as he had observed his father growing more and more hard, paranoid, blind…He had hoped for so long that the signs of his father’s slow fall into darkness were imagined, that his youth and lack of experience made his view inaccurate. But the contempt that he saw in the eyes of his kinsmen as he walked through camp is reflected in the eyes of their King, which sparkle now like lifeless jewels.

He had always thought that there must be more to his father’s heart that perhaps he could not fathom, some great room in his mind that is filled with the thousand years of memory of before Legolas had been born, containing affection for his mother and concern for the well-being of his people, Sylvan and Sindar alike. How had it come to this? 

They incline their heads to him and he to them, without any one of them breaking eye contact.

“I would speak with you alone.” Says Legolas.

Thranduil nods imperceptibly to his entourage, and they leave the tent, Lokamaril looking visibly disappointed.

Wordlessly Legolas retrieves the amethyst from a pocket and holds it up so that it catches the light from the lamps in the tent. Thranduil does not flinch.

“Where did you find that?”

“You know where I found it.” He cannot bring himself to say the word…father…

A moment passes. Their eyes never waiver from each other.

“Unfortunate.” 

“How so? That Tauriel was beaten, raped and mind blocked, or that I found out it was you that did it?”

Thranduil’s face erupts into something maniacal, his mouth opening carnivorously, “She was a fool, she had a choice! She chose to refuse her King’s demands and received a just punishment! She deserved far worse for her other many transgressions, for disobeying me and consorting traitorously with dwarves who had trespassed onto our lands without permission and put our entire Realm in danger by entering Erebor and awakening a fire-breathing dragon!!”

“I was not aware that such was one our Realm’s punishments for disobedience, or that an Elf King’s rights extended so far.”  
“You are not aware of many things.” Hisses Thranduil.

In the back of his mind Legolas thinks of Tauriel, hoping she has been able by now to speak to those who were harmed and hopefully has had time to get them to safety. He must keep his father talking for a little while. He does not look forward to this prospect.

“Perhaps I am more aware than you know.”

Another silence.

“I find it interesting that Tauriel’s punishment was not made public, then. Why did you not make an example of her?”

Thranduil’s eyes narrow to slits. “Beware your impertinence, boy. When you are King you will know there some things one does to tend the flock that are kept private for the good of the Realm.”

“Becoming a King is no longer my wish.”

“That is easily arranged.”

More silence.

“Indeed. How many others were there? Tell me, how many half brothers and sisters do I have?”

“Beware…Legolas…”

“How many other minds have you enslaved either magically or with your amoral example?!”

“The Sylvans breed 5 times faster than our superior Sindar people! Something had to be done. I visited as many viable females as I could, hoping to repopulate our kinspeople, but the cursed Sylvan traits always seem to predominate, and some of the Sylvan females resisted me—“

“STOP! PLEASE!...”

Viable females…repopulation…cursed traits…

Legolas closes his eyes. All the grief of the world seems to fall upon him. The man before him is his father, but he cannot be his son anymore. 

“You are not concerned with the judgment of the High Elves at all, are you?”

Thranduil snorts derisively, “They have no right to interfere in the sovereign rule of a king over his own people and they know it!”

“And what of my opinion? Does it mean nothing to you?”  
“You are WEAK!!!” Thranduil says savagely, “I would have respected you more if you had taken Tauriel for your own by Princely rights! If you wanted the little bitch you should have taken her decisively, not pussyfooted around her with your pathetic honor and simpering harp strings! Even though it went against my wishes of Sindar purity I would at least have been able to respect your show of some strength!!”

Another Silence. Legolas fights hard now against the tears that push against his eyes. He had loved this man once. He remembers a time when he had believed in Thranduil, and had had reason to love him. He wonders if Thranduil remembers anything at all beyond the pain of dragon fire, and the loss of his good queen…

“And what do you think my mother would have thought of this?”

Thranduil looks sharply at him, vulnerability entering his countenance for the very first time.

“She knew Tauriel when she was a child. I remember. The archery lessons. Tauriel was one of her favorite younglings. It did not seem to matter to her that she was Sylvan…”

“DON’T YOU DARE…!”

There is silence again.

Legolas finally speaks. “I shall never raise my sword against you, but I will not stand by your side so long as you persist in your belief of justifying the brutalizing of our women in order to further your agenda of Sindarian racial purity.”

Thranduil’s mouth sneers but his eyes are wide and the whites radiate like opals.

Before he leaves, legolas speaks one last time.

“I renounce my right to the throne of the Woodland Realm. You will have to find another to carry on your work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long waits... this was a hard one to write. So much pain in this disfunctional relationship.


	4. Mysteries Unraveled

More and more of the Woodland elves, Sindar as well as Sylvan, have gathered around Galadriel as she works to heal those who were harmed. Now almost 500 in number, the word has gone out through the delicate immortal senses of the fair folk that the Lady Galadriel is here, that some of their own people have been grievously harmed and that the Lady of Lothlorien is healing them, that the King has been accused, that Tauriel has returned and is their Captain again…

One by one Tauriel watches as her kinsmen bend their heads to Galadriel’s touch. Her voice is softer and fuller than Elrond’s was. Something about it echoes in the minds of those who sit listening, the Elven words resonating for them as strongly as they do for those Galadriel touches. They sit in small groups, friends, sisters, brothers, fellow soldiers, surrounding the center of a great circle where The Lady of Lothlorien sits with the few elves who need her direct care. The Elves of the Woodland Realm are breathless with rapt attention, their hands touching, their wide eyes staring forward unseeing, their ears listening through the icy darkness and pure silence. The warm velvet of Galadriel’s voice carries to all of them, untangling the tight strings of their training, the rigidity of their vision. She drops the warmth of suggestion into each that they feel deep inside their hearts… _that the mistakes of ancestors need not condemn their descendents, …that the Gods are perhaps more forgiving than some of their subjects…that the colors of ones’ hair and eyes simply does not matter…_

Many mysteries are unraveled as Galadriel continues. Many had been puzzled by Vanimuin’s pregnancy, as no man had ever visited her and she was so obviously bound to Fariendel. Her son Lumenas has his mother’s green eyes and red hair, and is considered to be the most beautiful and promising youngling in the Realm. But as Galadriel draws out the truth, it becomes plain that his conception was anything but immaculate. Thranduil had visited Vanimuin and two other Sylvan women, and their scenarios had been almost identical to Tauriel’s. The evidence ripples back through the elves in cold waves that sets them shivering, but it also draws them closer together, and sets them whispering not in conspiracies but in final understanding and comfort, in gathering realization that Galadriel was correct, that these few whom Thranduil had cursed were in fact not the weakest of them but in fact the strongest of all because they had had the spirit to resist their King when their King had crossed a sacred line.

Tauriel sits with her fellow Sylvan women. They speak softly to each other, touching hands, touching foreheads, truly seeing and hearing each other for the very first time in decades. Tauriel is ashamed that as Captain of the Guard she had held herself above them, and had thus never been aware that they had been so deeply harmed. Of course they had never spoken, had not thought they would be believed, had been so low in status that the elves of the Realm had ignored them, and in fact Tauriel barely knew of them because they had never been able to even appear or move in the presence of their King any more than Tauriel would have in these past nightmarish days. _Days for her…years for them…_

Dinariel sits trembling amongst her Sylvan friends. She has been giving her support, pressing each of them gently forward into Galadriel’s care as their turns arose, and offering comfort as they emerged but keeping herself back, her eyes down, avoiding the gaze of those ancient blue eyes. _The others need this more than I do_ …she thinks… _I will not need her care, I know who the fathers of my children are…there were no deceptions done to me…_

But she still trembles, and when she sees her friends healed and sitting closely together in a group with Tauriel, she longs to join them, but backs up instead, drawing her feet under her and beginning to get to her feet. But she feels a large, gentle pair of hands on her shoulders, pressing her back to the ground. She turns to look, and is stunned.

“Nurtalas…?”

His large hazel eyes regard her with concern, and something else, guarded and tragic, as he settles himself behind her.

“Your most humble servant, my lady.” His hands slide down her shoulders to her elbows, slowly pushing her hands forward as all at once Galadriel is before her, and takes her hands into the cool smoothness of her own.

Dinariel is ashamed of how afraid she is. But she is frozen and cannot speak, a chunk of ice in her chest and a tear emerging from her eyes as she feels Galadriel place her hands into Nurtalas’ hands, feels him clasp his fingers firmly around hers. Dinariel nearly sobs as the Lady’s palms cup her face.

 ********

They have had time to speak to each other, to absorb the evidence, to rebind the ties that have been broken amongst them. Slowly, gradually, Tauriel feels them all begin to turn to her. Her guard gathers near her, and they begin to ask her the questions she has been asking herself over the past few days.

_What do we do now?_   
_How do we deal with our King?_   
_How will our Realm continue?_   
_How do **we** continue?_

Tauriel’s mind begins to prioritize, knowing time must be growing short.

“King Thranduil will have heard of our gathering by now.” She turns to the women most harmed by memory spells, speaking to them and to those who care most for them, “You should take your belongings and leave here quickly. Make for Dale and seek the Elven high counsel in the Hall of Girion—“

“No.”

It is Vanimuin. The Elves are all getting to their feet now, and stand before Tauriel, their expressions calm and brilliant, with an edge of something grim.

“We will not leave, Captain Tauriel. When our King comes to question our activities here by this campfire, we will stand together and tell him exactly what they have been.”

Tauriel regards them, a slow smile spreading on her face.

Dinariel speaks then. Tauriel looks into the face of the tall blond woman and is shocked by the change in her. There is a fierceness there that she has not seen before in Dinariel… “We would be honored if you would speak for us Captain Tauriel. We will all stand with you. We will not falter.”

Tauriel sees many hands clasping the hilts of swords, caressing the handles of bows, their resolve as strong and sound as the tension of 500 bowstrings…

Abruptly Tauriel looks at the place where she was certain Galadriel had been standing, and realizes that the Lady of Lothlorien has vanished as though she had never been there at all.

+++++++++++++++++++++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, get on with it already!!!!
> 
> Confrontation coming soon, I promise!


	5. For the Good of the Realm

Lokamaril enters Thranduil’s tent, winded, his eyes savage,

“My Lord, there is a large gathering of Sylvans outside the boundaries of our camp. There is a rumor that Tauriel is with them, that treason is afoot!”

Thranduil regards him calmly. “As we discussed, Captain.”

Lokamaril nods, rushing away into the night. Legolas still stands quietly, the Prince having no more to say, and the King knowing there is no more he need hear.

Finally Thranduil walks past him towards the tent entrance, “Beware, Legolas. You may choose not to raise your sword against me, but if you side with the traitors, I cannot guarantee your safety from your Sindar brothers. They are as disappointed with you as I am.”

“They are not the only brothers I have. I am sorry you do not realize that.”

Thranduil turns on him fiercely, “Have you not yet learned that there is nothing that goes on in my realm that I do not realize?!!” They are inches apart. They are alike, this King and his son. Both elves direct their identically brilliant blue eyes to pierce each other from beneath black brows, corn silk hair flows down around their broad shoulders, large weapon- skilled hands clench into fists as the silence screams between them. But the similarity ends there. Legolas’ expression still reveals a heart that wishes to turn back time, to go back to the loving father and great and cunning King that he knew not so long ago, to erase all that he has discovered and be in blissful ignorance again. He will never let on to anyone, and barely to himself, that he keeps that child’s hope. But his father sees it, and his face which radiates rage and disgust waivers for the briefest of moments, a fleeting shudder of regret and despair of a father realizing he has lost his son’s esteem.

But it is so brief, that Legolas will tell himself later that he had imagined it with his own wishful thinking.

Thranduil finally utters a guttural cry of frustration and breaks from Legolas’ gaze to storm out of the tent. Legolas follows soon after.

*******************************************************************

The Sindar elf guard is marching towards the clearing with Thranduil in the lead. Legolas flanks them behind a parallel row of tents, anxiously assessing the situation. He estimates there are 100 elves with Thranduil; he does not know how many elves will have gathered to hear Tauriel’s words. He hurries ahead, following the light of the large fire burning high outside the encampment’s edge. It is reflected in his eyes, and brings a cold sweat out beneath his armor as he nears it. He knows Thranduil goes to this confrontation prepared and unsurprised. His insides twist as he weighs the possibility that his father may not retain enough of his reason to preserve his people from a civil war. And such a conflict here, in this doomed valley, the stars blotted out from the oncoming hords of orcs and goblins reported by Elrond’s scouts…he fears for the Woodland elves and for Middle earth itself. He finally feels the truth of Tauriel’s words, the words that had scared him as he’d first heard them.

_With every victory the darkness grows stronger…tell me Mellon, when did that darkness become stronger than us?_

He bursts into the clearing where Tauriel stands in the firelight, surrounded by 500 Elves arrayed in their full armor and fingering their blades and bows intensely. They start when they see him, the raw human nerve of them stretching and then at once relaxing as they recognize their Prince. He is at once relieved and privately pained to see them, for he knows at least that might is on the right side, but neither does he wish to see his father brought down…

“They are right behind me,” he tells Tauriel, who nods to him. She sees the pain in his eyes, memorizing the moment. Whatever his prejudices against dwarves, against Kili, against those of Sylvan lineage, his heart is still the good one she has known as he turns with her towards the sound of ominous marching elven boots. Her friend is still here, she has not lost him. She thanks the light of Elendil for that.

And then Thranduil is there, gliding into the glow of the firelight with a hundred guardsmen behind him. She had forgotten how formidable he was. Taller even than the Sindar guardsmen who flank him, richly robed and armored, his eyes taking each and every one of them in, recognizing, measuring, his glittering eyes narrowing, his black, branched crown grasping upwards and towards them all.

A tremor passes through Tauriel for the briefest moment. And then out of the corner of her eye she sees Vanimuin step up beside her on her left, and Dinariel steps up on her right next to Legolas. She does not have to look behind her to know that the others stand ready. She can feel them, she knows the elves standing behind her share something with her now that they had not before. They have broken through the isolation Thranduil had imprisoned them in, as each elf had striven for status in a realm ruled by rigid heirarchy. She realizes how friendless she has been, how so many of them have been. But now she can still feel the touch of their hands, the touch of their foreheads against hers, still hear the words sharing the fear and pain and then relief. The colors of their courage swirl around her and through her, pulling the strength she already possesses into a pool of warmth in her center, sharpening her mind, smoothing the ripples in her breathing until her lungs begin to fill deeply with the full confidence that she will parry anything Thranduil may throw at her.

The fire has simmered down to glowing embers. They glow red, orange and white hot at the center of the coals, as all stand waiting…

Thranduil speaks first. “So our wayward daughter Tauriel has returned.” His soft voice penetrates the cold silence. Tauriel feels the words in her heart. Thranduil had been like a father to her once… but the feeling does not survive his next statement, “Come to reclaim your captaincy? Not too likely with a Dwarvish trinket set within your auburn locks…”

The Sindar elves with Thranduil, snort and laugh at this, as all notice for the first time the lack of Elven braids in Tauriel’s hair, and the ornately carved silver clasp set on the back of her head covered in Dwarvish runes. But Tauriel smiles and slowly turns in a full circle to show the clasp to all. It gives her the opportunity to look at her people behind her, who smile back at her with equal warmth. Even Legolas regards her with a twinkle, long having conceded Kili’s place in her heart however strange it still seems to him. She has hidden nothing from them and they are far less shocked at her Dwarvish clasp than they are at their King’s transgressions.

“There are no untold truths between me and our people, Thranduil. Can you say the same?”

Thranduil’s face darkens as he sees and feels how united they are. “Indeed.” He says, “So you imagine yourself the equal of a King now? Do you plan to take over my rule?”

“Your spells over us have all been broken. You may continue to rule over the Woodland Realm, but you have no more power over us.”

“ _These are treasonous words!!”_ He raises his right hand, and the guardsmen behind him on his signal unsheathe all of their swords simultaneously. At the same moment a shout goes up at the edge of the gathered circle; Lokamaril and one hundred more Sindar Elves appear out of the darkness, completely surrounding the elves gathered around Tauriel and cutting off any escape. The sickening creak of tightening bowstrings fills the air as they aim their arrows at the hearts of their own kinsmen.

The elves now loyal to Tauriel pull in together, their hands on their weapons, looking to their Captain and Prince for guidance. But Tauriel and Legolas have not flinched. Their hands remain at their sides and they radiate calmness, control back into their kinsmens’ minds.

Shields are raised, but no weapons. The Sindar Guard look with consternation at their King. They will not fire at their own unarmed kinsmen. Lokamaril, with a seething noise deep in his throat, orders them to lower their arrows but stand firm.

Momentarily foiled, Thranduil snorts with frustration, but rallies quickly. He has only just begun.

He looks at the women, Vanimuin, Fariendel, Tauriel, Dinariel, and all the others who stare back at him, some with anger, some with disgust, some with pained betrayal. The corners of his mouth turn downward and his voice rumbles darkly, “You think you have been wronged…” he walks before them slowly, “you think your small, petty discomforts are of more import than the will of your King? Than the good of your Realm?”

“ _’The good of the Realm…?_ ’” Says Tauriel “of what good can you possibly be speaking?!”

Thranduil rounds on the red headed elf and her boldly raised question, his hands unperceptively moving, his voice whispering a sinister set of words. Legolas sees the danger and nearly cries out, but he need not have worried. Thranduil’s spell, whatever it was, seems to dissipate into the cold air like a harmless mist and Tauriel’s eyes remain clear. Several of her Sylvan guardsmen step up behind her as the confidence of the gathered elves rises another notch. Galadriel had done more than simply free their minds. She had given them protection as well.

Legolas looks at his father again, who has looked back at him for a fleeting moment. A glint of rage appears in Thranduil’s eyes for a split second as his face flushes with the realization that this particular form of manipulation is now gone from him.

Switching tactics again, he stops in front of Dinariel, who is one of the few there who is tall enough to look him directly in the eye as he stands before her. “Surely you know the answer to that question Dinariel? Is it not the greatest gift of all to carry an elf child and bring it into the world? Are the three children you bore to us not the most beautiful and precious possessions of our Realm?”

There is tremor that passes through the gathered elves, like a low moan, a tremulous gasp at the word… _possessions_ …

Thranduil continues speaking to Dinariel, his voice softening, weedling, “ I took such careful care of you, especially, surely you know that. You had so graciously agreed to cooperate in the conception of your children.”

Dinariel’s face is hard as stone. “I am ashamed of my cooperation with you. My sisters were right to resist you. You did not care about me; you manipulated my memories the same way you did theirs.”

“Indeed I did not. Your situation was most delicate. There was such nasty and damaging gossip. I simply helped you not to notice it…”

“And Voronil’s death? Did you also help me not to notice the true cause of it?!!”

Another tremor ripples through the elves.  A small blue flame has become to thread its way upwards amongst the bright coals of the fire. It sways slowly back and forth, its movement independent of the wind…

“Voronil became difficult; he disagreed with my plans for you and defied me. I had not intended to end his life but I was not sorry to hear of his passing—“

“Indeed neither was I!” Lokamaril has threaded his way forward and now stands in the firelight beside his King. His teeth are bared and his face flushed; he seems almost drunk. Dinariel’s intense gaze switches to him, and Thranduil, after a moment of consideration, steps slowly backwards, out of the light.

“Voronil was a fool, and a poor fighter as well.” Several of Lokamaril’s own guard flinch at this, for Voronil had been well liked. “Do you want to know what really happened to him?”

Dinariel and the elves stare at Lokamaril tensely, as though about to watch the emergence of some dark insect from a blackened cocoon. The blue flame has curled higher and has spread across the surface of the coals, thrumming as though with its own heartbeat.

“I was on patrol with him to the North of the River. We knew there was a nest nearby and we were on the trail of a spider pack when he shouted at me to come and look at something.”  He spat on the ground. “It was a faun, a male progeny of a Great Stag. You would have thought he’d found one of the Silmarils itself.”

Legolas gasps, and he is not alone. No one had seen any of the Great Stags in the wild for many years since the invasion of the spiders, and a faun had been rare even when the stags had been present.

“He was going to forsake our orders in order to rescue the wretched thing. It had lost its mother and was thin, not even likely to survive, but he was insisting on carrying it back with us, the fool, and had it hoisted onto his shoulders when we saw a group of spiders coming right at us. With the beast on his shoulders he could not run fast enough, or draw his sword to fight them. One of them grabbed him and when I saw that I knew he could not be helped.”

Tauriel’s voice cuts the silence. “Lokamaril, in all my years as Captain, no patrol was ever supposed to be more than shouting distance from another patrol. Why did you not send up a call for aid?”

The new Captain sneers, looking back to Thranduil for support, “There was no need to endanger the lives of other more worthy kinsmen for Voronil’s sake.” He looks back at Dinariel, who has gone as still and white as death, “Those who are weak must be weeded out. That is the law of the forest.”

Dinariel moves so fast that Lokamaril is barely able to raise his sword in time to prevent her from cleaving his head from his neck.

“ _Nadorhuan!!”_ Her voice is low but seems to carry to the very rock foundations of Dale and back as her sword still bears down against his, the steel blades scraping together ominously, “ _you left him to die_!!”

Nurtalas steps forward, drawing his own sword, “Dinariel—“

“No!” she shouts now to all of them, “I claim this fight! Lokamaril murdered my pledgemate! I claim his blood for all of us!”

Lokamaril, instead of being dismayed by her attack, seems thrilled by it. “Finally overcome your fear of public speaking, Dinariel?” He spins his blade free of hers and their blades clang together as their fight begins in ernest.

“Do you really think you can fight me and win? You think you have that ability? You? A woman? No more use to the Realm than a brood mare?”

But Dinariel’s voice is cool and deadly to Lockamaril’s red hot taunts, as she spins liquidly around him, her blade slicing through the leather of his right leg guard, drawing first blood.

“My ability has always been there, Lokamaril, as you well know. I only required a reason, which you have so graciously given to me.”

Lokamaril has begun to sweat, his taunts becoming desperate, “Will you be proud to tell Arotamuin that you murdered her father?”

“I will be proud to tell her that I killed a snake who murdered her sister’s father.”

With these words Dinariel throws herself into a barrage of sword thrusts so ferocious that even Legolas himself wonders if he could parry it. All of her love for Voronil, for her children, for her friends and their children, her pain and shame at having been used, all pour themselves into the edge of her blade. Lokamaril’s eyes go wide and he emits a low cry as his sword is driven from his hand and he is down, his head in the dirt, his lungs heaving for air against the earth as Dinariel’s blade pushes at his throat.

The Elves of the Woodland Realm are breathless for a moment as Dinariel’s muscles flex, her mouth a savage line in her face, and the blue flame seems to reach towards them in a flickering vibration of rage…

Tauriel and Legolas look at her with the respect of fellow warriors. The choice is hers. But their example thus far has been a clear one.

And slowly, Dinariel straightens, re sheathing her blade. She turns towards her friends, towards Nurtalas, beginning to feel something alive and warm again inside her chest for the first time in many years…

And in that moment, as time seems to slow itself, Lokamaril rises from the ground, pulling a short blade from a hidden sheath at his side, and lunges at Dinariel’s back. Dinariel suddenly hears the thudding of a dozen arrows into flesh. She looks down in horror, thinking Sindar treachery, seeking the feel of arrow shafts in her own body…

But then she sees Nurtalas standing with his bow drawn but empty, the string still quivering. Legolas, Tauriel, Fariendel, and several others all stand similarly, their expressions grim, looking past her, behind her…

…at Lokamaril who stands for another long moment, a pincushion of arrows protruding from him at all angles, a look of shock and emptiness on his face before he falls backwards and the flames die down to coals again.


	6. Full Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this done! This was a tough birth. Sorry for the wait.

The air is charged. The elves, Sindar and Sylvan alike, stare down at Lokamaril who lies dead in the center of the fire circle. His eyes are still wide open, a faint trickle of blood falls from his mouth.

One of the Sylvan guards behind Tauriel whispers to her, “Well that’s one less snake we have to worry about.”

“Yes, I must thank you for ridding us of him. He was growing most irritating.”

All turn amazed eyes to the speaker of these words. Thranduil, who has stood silently during the fight, looks back at them blithely, seeming as unconcerned by his first Lieutenant’s death as he would be by the death of a random cockroach.

Legolas begins to feel a dread growing deep inside his core, a foreboding he cannot explain and one that he does not wish to investigate…

Tauriel, for her part notices something else. The Sindar guard behind Thranduil has suddenly changed its stance. She knows these men. She was their Captain for centuries and she always knew the readiness of their minds and hearts when it came to battle. Now she sees the tips of their drawn blades trembling, and their eyes beneath the helms of their helmets have blown wide at the callous words of their King. Several of those in the back of the lines have begun to fade back into the dark…

Her own people are trembling, too, their weapons still out, their nerves on edge.

She lets her voice ring out above all of them. “There will be no more blood drawn this night!” She lowers her own bow and brings her full attention to Thranduil, meeting his glittering gaze with her own. The Silvan elves lower their weapons, too, gathering themselves in support of their true Captain. “There will be enough blood flowing all too soon. Enough of us may lose our lives in the upcoming Battle against our real enemies; we cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves.”

As if to illustrate her words there is a distant rumble to the East. Their elven senses flinch as they can almost feel the crushing footfalls of the marching orcs against the earth, the crack of whips in the air, the grunting and snarling that exudes from black, oily throats… a distant horn call pierces the cold silence. No elven, dwarven or man-made horn ever emitted such a call. It is the sound of greed, of violence, of strangling pain, and it marches inexorably towards them in steel toed boots.

Tauriel looks at Legolas, a silent question in her eyes. He ducks his head to her. He will follow her lead. She turns to Thranduil. “Legolas and I will leave now for the Town of Dale. You are all welcome to follow us, but in following us you must know that you are renouncing your allegiance to King Thranduil and to the Woodland Realm.” She pauses for just a moment. The wind whistles through air, a lonely sound. But Tauriel suddenly feels as though hundreds of hands have rested themselves upon her shoulders, not weighing heavily, but resting and gently encouraging…”We renounce your leadership, Thranduil. We will no longer follow a king who would do his own people so much harm and think so little of it. We will fight for the safety of Middle Earth in this coming battle, but then we will seek to settle ourselves in other lands far from here and build a Kingdom where there will be true kinship amongst all.”

 

Thranduil’s gaze has not waivered, or warmed. “Well, of course…” His voice weaves a silken but icily cold path, tracing its way around and between every one of them, vibrating at the edges of their ear tips and sinking into their bellies to grasp at them, in contrast to his words, “You are all free to go as you wish. You have renounced your Kingdom and may go freely into Middle Earth so long as you never return to my Realm.”

The elves exhale a tremulous breath in unison. Hesitantly they look at each other, then at Tauriel and Legolas. These two nod to each other and begin to direct the elves away from Thranduil, gently whispering to them, nudging them to sheath their weapons, leading them away from the fire.

But just as they have begun to turn their minds outward, Thranduil speaks again. His hands rest on his hips, the toe of his boot toying with a pebble on the ground, “Of course, your children will have to stay with me.”

The dread Legolas had felt blossoms into something horrible.

“And rest assured I will see to it that they never hear your names spoken, or ever remember you at all when I have finished with them.”

A series of small cries comes from all the mothers. A low moan whose source is not quite identifiable travels through the Sylvan elves as they think of their precious younglings who will be at the mercy this King for whom nothing is sacred. Their laughing innocence will be used, twisted, their minds trained to crave purity over character, to want status more than honor…

Tauriel and Legolas look at each other with real fear for their people as they see Thranduil smiling, thinking he has won…

But then there is another change. Something prickles and sparks at the edge of Tauriel’s senses.

Vanimuin, Dinariel, and a dozen other women have moved forward as though they have meshed into one ghostly being. Their hands are empty at their sides, their eyes darkened, their hearts beating in unison as they gather around Thranduil.

And Legolas finally knows that the dread he had felt was not for his people, but for his father.

He feels Tauriel take his hand, pulling him protectively backwards as they watch in horror…

Thranduil sneers at them at first, laughing derisively, until he begins to feel the power emanating from them. His own men back away from him as the women surround him, as the light of their combined _fea_ begins to pulse, as Thranduil’s own light begins to glow…

Vanimuin sees her beautiful son in her mind, and her hands rise in front of her, palms facing towards Thranduil, fingers clawed outwards as her voice joins that of all the other mothers around her,

“ _You Shall Not!!!!”_

Thranduil, now surrounded, barely has time to feel afraid before he feels it, the pulling, the dragging, the cleaving of light from his body. There is no longer any fuel left in the campfire nearby yet the flames roar high and pure deep red as the _feas_ of the Woodland elf mothers rage against this threat to their precious younglings. Thranduil’s head is thrown backwards and an enearthly scream rips from his mouth as the light of the Eldar is pulled away from him forever, leaking away and running out into the cold, back up into the stars from whence it came…

He grasps at it as though he could catch it and pull it back, every sinew of him in agony, but he is losing this battle. They are all around him. Hands take the robe from his shoulders, the crown from his head, the rings are yanked from his fingers just as his _fea_ is ripped to shreds…The Sindar guard have all but fled. The women finally back away. The flames of the campfire burn down to nothing, not even the glow of coals, and the elves are left in almost complete darkness.

The only light now comes from the distant fires left burning by the Woodland elf tents a small distance away. By this dim light, Legolas gasps at the crumpled form that is left in the dirt by the dead campfire.

Thranduil’s _hroa_ is now mortal. The great power he had wielded had not only led his Realm, but had shielded him from the effects of his own greatest fears and pain. This power is now gone from him, and the greatest fear and pain of his long life now manifest themselves. The terrible injuries he had suffered centuries ago from dragon fire have now reemerged on one side of his face, the one eye whitened and blinded, the skin from his jawline to his left ear mangled and scarred, his silken hair scorched away and his eartip mangled.

He is on his knees, swaying from side to side slightly, his hands grasping forward, his eyes staring out from his ruined face.

The women have fallen away. They turn their backs. Quietly they fade into the darkness of the valley, still connected to each other but each setting their eyes on the lights of Dale. Hundreds of the other Woodland elves begin follow them, to move away from their camp, away from their ravaged King.

 _“I am blind!!”_ Thranduil gasps, “ _There is no light! I cannot see!!”_ His voice hisses through his throat as though the great fire drake whose flame burned him centuries before now possesses his throat. He falls forward onto one of his outstretched arms. His two guards kneel next to him, the only ones still there, still loyal to him. _“They are gone_! “ his hand passes through the air before them frantically searching, _“their thoughts, their troubles,… their long sleep, their dark dreams…!”_

Legolas has fallen to the ground too. His own breathing is painful. And he understands that Thranduil is not speaking of his eyesight. The right side of his face is untouched and his one eye is still clear and deep brown. He is speaking of lost clairvoyance, lost awareness of his people, the lost 6th sense of every elf that is part of their immortality, part of the Light of the Eldar that has been taken from him. Tears fall down Legolas’ face now as he reaches out to his father.

Tauriel’s hands grip his shoulders gently. “ _Mellon amin_ ,” she says, “His guard will care for him. You must not stay here. It will not help either of you.”

Legolas continues to gaze at Thranduil, not looking at her. “Lead them to Dale, Tauriel. I will follow shortly.” His voice is soft but firm, and when he looks at her she sees he means what he says.

She nods, and quietly rises to go.

Legolas turns back to his father. The two guards have removed their helmets, and look at their Prince. Legolas realizes he has never seen their faces before, and recognizes with surprise that these two are very old, perhaps even as old as his father.

“We will care for him, my Prince.” One of them says, “We have watched as he has ruled. We saw much that we wish we had never seen.”

They both bow their heads. They speak the next words together softly, as one,

“we are ashamed.”

“It will be our penance to watch over him until his end. We will make sure that he never returns to the Realm, and that he never harms the children.”

Legolas nods. He has lived for more than 800 years, but until this moment he had never felt so old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this brings me to the end of another chapter. Thank you so much for reading and commenting thus far!
> 
> There were so many ways to go here and I am still not quite done with Thranduil.
> 
> But I feel the need to return to Durin's line in my next efforts, and explore what might have been occuring in Erebor all this time...what if????


End file.
